


two slow dancers

by lucifersthrone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Dean Winchester Can't Say "I Love You", Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Love Dean Winchester, Inspired by a Mitski Song, Supernatural - Freeform, Title from a Mitski Song, but not really a happy ending, oneshots, this keeps me awake at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersthrone/pseuds/lucifersthrone
Summary: “I like this song.” Y/N says. Dean listens close, Something by the Beatles twirling in the air. Y/N closes her eyes and sings along in a whisper.“Wanna dance?” he asks. Dean offers his hand, her skin is smooth against his calloused fingers.--Dean and Y/N are just two slow dancers, last ones out. After 11 years of writing letters to each other, they finally meet again, but this time it's different.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/You, Sam Winchester/Reader
Kudos: 10





	two slow dancers

**Author's Note:**

> this story was heavily inspired by mitski's song "two slow dancers" that i've played on repeat for more than ten hours now. i also referenced this article while writing it. https://atwoodmagazine.com/mtsd-mitski-two-slow-dances-review/
> 
> i hope you like it!

Dean sits on the edge of the dingy motel bed, the light passing through the stained curtains of a cheap motel meets the hazel green of his eyes. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat; it had been a long day. Another monster hunt, another near-death experience to add to his list of “almost dying.” Well, he _did_ die back in St. Louis those few months ago; what a shit head too, killing those innocent people.

Sam is out grabbing food, probably refueling the Impala, and chatting up the locals in need for a conversation that wasn’t about monsters. Dean laughs to himself; a sort of self-deprecating-what-am-I-doing-here sort of laugh.. In his hands Dean holds a worn envelope, stained pink and stamped with a California seal, addressed to a Dean Winchester. How the letters got to him every time, Dean still couldn’t figure out. He smiles, tearing the envelope open, a sweet floral scent whirling in the dusty air. Gardenias. 

Back in Bakersfield, California on a hunt to kill a wendigo, Dean, age 15, met Y/N Y/L/N. Her family ran the motel they stayed at. She was annoying, nosy, and loud, all three not mutually exclusive. Dean rolled his eyes at her countless times when she’d knock on their motel door with gifts overflowing from her arms. She made his blood boil. Her neat waves of coffee-colored hair. The rosy pink in her cheeks, dimples on either side when she smiled with her semi-crooked teeth. The bubbly laugh, giggle, and on the best of occasions, snort, that she exhaled when he said anything slightly amusing. Y/N would humor Sam, bring him trading cards to socialize with the boys at school, or a home baked treat her grandma taught her to whip up. Everything she did made Dean angry. It was a little boy's anger. Frustrated by the kindness she gave him that Dean didn’t even know he had been searching for.

Looking back on it in the small motel room that feels so big even at 26, maybe Y/N found a mirror in his eyes and could feel the swallowing loneliness that devoured him on the road. 

When John was out Y/N would knock on their door, invite herself inside, and greet Sammy with a ruffle of his hair. Dean would pretend not to care. He’d sit on the bed angrily sharpening a wooden stake (and on occasion, watch his little brother and the girl next door play Magic: the Gathering or she would read Frankenstein or Dracula and ponder at the romantic ideals of imagination and innovation). Dean would continue his act, polishing the pointy stick, all the while listening to Y/N’s rhythmic speech.

His favorite parts were when she would stand up and stomp around the room, arms out, embodying the role of Frankenstein’s monster. With her clunky steps, she would wander to Dean and nudge his shoulders until he pushed back; she’d laugh, then offer the boys cookies. All three of them would sit in the dim light of the motel on 300 Wible Rd. eating their chocolate chip cookies and laughing about goblins, ghosts, and ghouls. When John came back, Y/N would sneak out the bathroom window and knock on the door the next day to establish their routine. 

John never told them that he knew, but parents almost always know, and he let his sons play their little games. Let them hold on to the childhood he robbed from them; let this little girl he didn’t know the name of, dig up their innocence and dress it in fairytales, cookies, and laughter. And on a night when Y/N didn’t show up at their door, and instead kicked her feet on the pavement to nervously spark conversation with John, he came to the conclusion that she must be an angel. Not the kind he knew, the ones that were just as bitter and deceitful and cruel as their demon counterparts, but the kind they told children about at Sunday School to keep them ignorant of the evils that hid in the shadows.

And in a voice that sounded too wise for her age she told John, “they’re good kids,” and retreated back into her wing of the foggy motel. He let his sons stay, soak in all the warmth the girl could supply them with, and after a month he stole them away again. 

Early morning, early enough that the boys and their dad woke up before the birds and the sun, Y/N waited on the curb to say goodbye. She handed Sam a platter of cookies, tousled his hair, and let him keep the card games. She shook Mr. Winchester’s hand with a knowing nod. When Y/N reached Dean she ghosted her arm through his chest, tangled every heartstring her hands could grasp, and kissed his loneliness. It flowered, died, then grew a small seedling, but for an instant he had been freed. Dean put a hand to his cheek where her soft kiss touched and she stuffed a letter into his hand. Y/N wrapped her arms around him. Her scent was a subtle sweetness--the kind you had to search for in the steam of herbal tea and flower fields, like she had been born out of the buds of the snowy gardenias that grew under the windows of their motel room. The boys entered the car. Y/N waved until she couldn’t see it anymore, no tire tracks or hazy headlights.

Gone. 

Dean’s wondrous affections for Y/N didn’t go away after that, no, not with the letter. It took him a year to write back, but he still did. It was his birthday. He rummaged through his backpack when the Winchester family arrived at their next stop in Cloudcroft, New Mexico. Y/N’s handwriting curled and danced on the handmade stationery, a waltz, a ballet. He could hardly remember her face, he saw so many on the road, but her laughter was clear. Like the glass of a freshly cleaned window. She wrote to him memories, ones to read again when he was feeling alone (which was almost always), a recipe for the chocolate chip cookies Sam loved so much, and a hearty proclamation of friendship. Call it childhood love, but Dean hasn’t met someone like her since. It’s a different love. Different from Cassie. Dean can’t name the difference, but he feels it.

Every time he rips open another envelope, hides it away in the secret compartment of the Impala he’s _so_ lucky Sam has yet to find because he would definitely get teased, he feels a warmth blossoming in his chest. An ache. A want. A need. Y/N knew him, sometimes better than he knew himself and when he needed it, she would always remind him of the good he was. She knew the family secret, their supernatural hunts and the revenge John swore on taking. And to his surprise, she believed it, accepted it. If he hadn’t been such an angry kid, maybe he could have savored his adolescent years and been like any other freshman in high school and asked her to a dance. They continued to exchange sporadic responses over the years, but never once did they promise to see each other again.

Not until now. 

Y/N’s letter reads:

_Dean,_

_I know it’s been longer than a few months since I’ve reached out to you. I caught wind of your death in St. Louis and it was hard to find your trail again. After all these years, I still don’t know why we never exchanged a phone number. Perhaps both of us are too keen on keeping this our little secret. Don’t you have too many of those, D? Anyways, I suppose I should catch you up. So much has happened in the past few months although I’m certain you’ve been through much more which you’ll have to tell me about in your next letter. The last time I wrote to you, I was in Oregon. Beautiful state. I hope you kept my pictures safe. I’m back in California now, Sacramento, to be exact. You know, I saw a man who looked so much like your father. I think it really was your dad. I wish I could have called you given the urgency of your situation, but I’m sure you already know where he is. I have a feeling he doesn’t want to be found. I’m heading to Chicago, by the time you read this, I should be there already. I have a feeling I’ll see you soon. To be honest with you, I’ve been having strange dreams recently. Nothing like the kind Sam is having, not so vivid. Just feelings. Uneasiness. Promise me you’ll be careful, okay?_

The letter trails on with more nagging and worrying, some good humored teasing, and side quests she’s completed. It ends with a “see you soon,” and two ticket slips that are taped to the letter. It’s a “Class of 1970” dance ticket, address and all. Like high school all over again. Strangely enough, his heart beats just as fast as it did back then. Butterflies flicking around his stomach, nervousness bubbling up his throat. He shakes his head in the dark room. He feels like a little kid. Dean wonders if there’s a need to respond this time or if his attendance to the ball will be enough. _If._

Sam busts open the door. 

“What’s this?” Sam snatches the tickets out of Dean’s hand before he can pull away. “A dance? You taking someone on a date?” he looks at Dean bewildered. 

“Up for a road trip to Chicago?” Dean asks Sam, but more as a rhetoric.

“Are you gonna tell me what this is about?” Sam asks.

Dean doesn’t answer. He starts packing up their guns, papers, and his secret “love” letter. He takes the tickets back from Sam and hides them in the folds of his jacket. Sam shrugs it off. 

\---

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Sam asks, eyes squinting at the sign on the building. _Wilkins Senior Center._

“Guess we’ll find out when we go inside.” Deans says. It’s 6:30PM, right on time for the dance. 

He struts through the main entrance, taken aback by the fairytale decorations. String lights, paper mache moons and stars, glittering banners and streamers adorn the entryway. A purple sign points in the direction of the recreation room. Dean beckons Sam to follow after him. They wander into the room. It smells like a school gymnasium. A young woman with coffee-colored hair makes her way towards the brothers.

“Dean?” she addresses.

Dean's eyes don't shimmer. His heart does not flutter, nor does he feel the sensation of goosebumps running along skin. Just the same, Y/N’s breath is steady, her hair doesn't stand on end, and her smile does not gleam. 

“Y/N, it’s really great to see you again.” Dean tells her.

“You don’t mean-” Sam starts, “wait this is-” Y/N laughs, that crystal clear laughter that’s been haunting Dean’s head for years. It rattles in his mind, a whine of nostalgia tugging at his chest. 

“It’s good to see you too, Sam.” she says. Despite addressing Sam, Y/N’s eyes lock with Dean’s hazel hued gaze, a sharp inhale retreating into her lungs. 

“So...class of 1970? Didn’t know you were that much older than us, Y/N.” Sam says, doing his best to cut the growing tension. She laughs again.

“For a city with over two million people, it’s surprising that almost every one of the senior citizens here graduated high school together. Their senior prom theme was Outer Space.” Y/N looks off to the couples of elderly, mingling and dancing under the carefully constructed cardboard milky way. “They had such big hopes for the future back then.”

Reading the room, Sam says, “I’m gonna grab some punch,” and walks off to the table adorned with food and a fountain of moonlight punch. Dean’s eyes have yet to leave Y/N’s face. He positions himself closer to her. 

“I’ve waited 11 years for this.” he says to her. 

“Have you?” she asks, seeking out his lie.

“No.” he admits. “I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

“I didn’t either.”

“I’ve missed you. I know I’m not good with the whole feelings thing, but I mean it.”

“I know.” She always knows. “I missed you too. I still miss you.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“You know what I mean.” Her smile is as sweet as the cookies from way back when. 

The air around them stills. Just the music, feeding away at their skin, breaking down the walls they wanted to build between them, and instead building a bridge. Dean wonders if these old people could’ve been him.

If he got a happy childhood. If he married at 24, had kids at 28, and watched them grow. If they sent him to a home, but the thought of death wasn’t scary anymore so he didn’t argue on their way to the center; if he wasn’t so obsessed with proving himself to the world. Y/N knows this could never be him, not now, not in this life, it can never be _them_. Old, content, celebrating all the magic in the sky and on the ground. It would be a hundred times easier if they were young again. It would be different, but not better. Maybe it would just be the same.

Two children, desperately clinging to their childhood loves, holding on to that last bit of innocence the universe threatens to tear away from them. 

“I like this song.” Y/N says. Dean listens close, Something by the Beatles twirling in the air. Y/N closes her eyes and sings along in a whisper. 

“Wanna dance?” he asks. Dean offers his hand, her skin is smooth against his calloused fingers. 

Y/N rests her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his broad back. He holds her at the waist, breathing in the floral scent of her hair. Gardenias. It’s always gardenias.

The song isn’t necessarily a slow dance song, but it doesn’t matter. Everything seems to move slowly to them in the moment. Caught in limbo, walking forward, but being pushed back. Dean smells like pine, worn leather, late nights in Bakersfield on the wrinkled sheets of a motel bed.

They hold onto each other, the same way they did eleven years ago. Cradling the loneliness, embracing the emptiness. It doesn’t go away. Not this time. But it doesn’t hurt either. 

“I wanted to ask you to a school dance.” Dean whispers in Y/N’s ear. “Back in high school.”

“Why didn’t you?” she responds.

“I don’t know. I can’t think of a good lie.”

“If we could go back in time, would you ask me?”

“Maybe.”

She hums in response.

“I thought this would be different.” Dean says. “That after this we won’t go back to our lives or search for a home we don’t have.”

“We can pretend.” Y/N says. “But I’m sure it’s tiring having to live a lie all the time, you need to catch a break once in a while.”

“I know.” Y/N can feel Dean’s hot breath on her head. 

The song ends, but the pair continues to sway on the barely lit dance floor.

In the hollow expanse of the senior center’s recreational room at 8:00PM on a weekday, Dean and Y/N, the last ones in the glowing room, wish to scream at the top of their lungs to live just one more day in naiveté. This magic moment doesn’t have to be falsity or an awkward confrontation, just an anthem of love. But nothing works that way. If it did, they’d be in much different places. They probably would have never met.

John had always convinced Dean that you only get one good love. And when it’s gone, it’s gone forever. He knows it isn’t true. He knows that there will be songs, stories, days, seconds, and people that will remind him how good the world can be. Still, Dean holds onto Y/N like she’ll disappear if he lets go.

Y/N’s grasp is so gentle on his back as if she fears he could shatter in his hands if she’s not careful.

They allow themselves to pretend, even though John is still missing, even though Mary’s death hasn’t been avenged and John might have to die to find the culprit--just this once, they beg for the universe to grant them solace, pretending they’re so much more than just two slow dancers.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if i should continue to do supernatural oneshots! as of now they'll most likely be deanxreader or samxreader because i'm only on the first season hehe
> 
> feel free to message me on tumblr @yerdads-basement or leave a comment w requests! i can't guarantee i'll reach them all or even be able to complete them for a while :')


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